More important, what has she let me in for?

As if feeling Jane's eyes on her, Crispy — halfway down the concourse and drawing a number of admiring looks — turned gracefully on a spiked, lizard-skinned heel, waggled her fingers, and winked conspiratorially.

The last time Jane had seen an expression like that was when her sister Martha had decided to purchase a high school term paper and blackmailed Jane into being her go-between. Jane's father had caught her slinking out of the house with the cash wadded in her fist. If she recalled correctly, as she was certain she did, Jane herself had gotten the entire blame for the episode.

The next one Jane was to meet didn't have half the exuberance of Crispy. Avalon Smith looked like a well-preserved "flower child" with the careless wad of burgundy-red hair, freshly scrubbed, makeup-free face, and layers of droopy, no-special-color clothing. She had a long brown scarf flung around her neck, and an equally nondescript necklace made of wood and bits of something that looked like varnished dirt clods.

"I'm Avalon Smith," she almost whispered to Jane, as if admitting to a rather embarrassing secret.

Jane introduced herself. "If you want to get your bags and come back here, I'll fetch you when I've met one more person."

"I just have this," Avalon said, indicating a big, squashy tapestry bag that had been indistinguishable from her garb.

"Then come along."

Avalon trailed along as obediently as an eccentrically clad carnival pony. "Did you have a good flight?" Jane asked.

"Oh, yes."

That was it. Jane waited for polite elaboration, but there wasn't any. "Where did you come from?" Jane asked, feeling obligated to make conversation.

"Arkansas."

Jane wanted to grab Avalon's arm (if she could find it in all that organic clothing) and say, "Look at me when you talk!" but she didn't.